


Cowards Who Daydream

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel's distracted again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You are distracted,” Elrond observed, not unkindly.

Glorfindel turned his smiling face to his Lord. “Yes,” he happily agreed. “I am.”

Elrond could not help but smile back at seeing one so wholly consumed with joy. “And what, may I ask, has stolen your attention this day?” It was a question he had asked many times before and was unsurprised to receive the usual response.

“Tis the same distraction as usual, Elrond.” Glorfindel seemed quite unperturbed and his smile remained unbroken as he turned to gaze out the window.

“You’ve accomplished very little work,” Elrond observed, raising a critical eyebrow.

“You’re right,” Glorfindel agreed with a contented little sigh. “I haven’t.”

Elrond tried to hide his smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I suppose it matters little, seeing as we are several days ahead of schedule.”

Glorfindel nimbly twirled a brown quill between large fingers. “That’s what I thought,” he agreed in a breathy sigh, watching the feather spin back and forth.

Elrond leaned in across the desks that separated them to carefully observe Glorfindel’s happy features. He said, quite seriously, “And shall you ever confide in me?”

“I may,” Glorfindel smiled, setting down the quill, the ink smearing the desktop. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I am curious of course,” Elrond answered. “I know you, Glorfindel. I know your habits and your manners, your routines and your values. I know that you detest time wasted in daydreaming and mediocre work accomplished by those who may be . . . distracted.”

“But my Lord,” Glorfindel light-heartedly protested, “I should never fall to such deplorable acts. In the presence of those beneath my command,” he added. His smile became one of bemused self-ridicule. “Even I allow myself the weakness of daydreams, Elrond.” His voice was deep and his eyes were focused on something Elrond would never see. “Even I may succumb to the happy places found only by a mind weakened with wonder in the pleasantly warm breezes of lazy summers.”

“I wonder what has so wholly consumed your dreams, my friend.”

“Can you not guess?” Glorfindel finally asked him, his smile weakening.

“If you were a few Ages younger,” Elrond suggested, “I should venture you were under the influence of love.”

Glorfindel beamed at him. “And what difference should the passing of years make? Love afflicts us all! Even myself.”

Elrond, excited now, leaned even further in and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you mean to tell me that your head is swelled with nothing more important than the wonders of love?” Elrond was thrilled. “Why have you not told me! How did I not guess!”

“Of course it is love,” Glorfindel answered him smoothly. “Of course I never told you, because you are an old goat who will insist on interfering, and of course you never guessed because you did not care to think your Captain so fortunate as to fall hopelessly in love after such a long time.” He was still smiling, rather goofily.

Elrond sat up ramrod straight and grinned wildly. “For nearly a hundred years now I have seen you swooning in the window seat when you thought none there to witness it!” Elrond cheerfully declared. “And now you say it is love!” He once more leaned conspiratorially forward to whisper, “Who is it you love? Who else knows? What have you done about it?”

Glorfindel smiled at him gently, as though indulging a spoiled child. “I shan’t tell you. I’ve told no one. I’ve done nothing.”

Elrond, unsurprised at the first two, burst out with, “Nothing?! You merely hide yourself away to daydream when you please and you haven’t done a bloody thing about it?!”

Puzzlement finding a way into the infernal smile, Glorfindel asked, “What do you expect me to do?”

“I should think you might make some advances toward the object of your affections,” Elrond readily answered. “That is the way of things: you fall in love, you pursue your love, you…” Elrond frowned and did not finish his speech.

Glorfindel matched the expression with a melancholy glower of his own. “Yes Elrond, and then what? Either you become happier than you can imagine, or you fall into the deepest pits of despair. I do not wish to succumb to anything more than the simple pleasantries of my daydreams. I do not wish to fall to the inane passion of fanatical lovers or the pitiable sorrow of an unmatched love. I am content in my daydreams, as most people would be if they had the sense to stop there. Happiness gained can always be lost. But love never pursued shall never be squandered. Do you understand me now?”

Elrond’s frown deepened and he looked upon his friend with sorrow in his cloudy grey eyes. “All too well, Glorfindel. And you are mistaken, for I do pity you. Just the smallest bit I pity the coward too fearful to seek love.”

= = = = =

Glorfindel was irritable all week. Everyone noticed it.

But of course, no one would say anything. It was unusual, but it would pass, as such things always eventually must do. Elrond made a point of scowling fiercely whenever Glorfindel was about, but Erestor and Lindir just avoided the irrational blonde and all Glorfindel’s soldiers made it a priority to simply not irritate him.

And pass it did, this foul mood, after only a few days. And Glorfindel readily returned to his good-natured self.

And only once in a great while would Elrond find his Captain lounging lazily about with a contented smile on his face, eyes focused on a distant daydream. Often in the office after the day’s work was done, or sometimes outside perched upon the branch of a resolute tree Elrond would find him. The Lord found his Captain’s happiness to be quite infectious and would -- more often than not -- find a similar smile creeping upon his own features before he reminded himself that Glorfindel was a coward and was not meant to be envied.

= = = = =

Years later, Glorfindel had an abrupt epiphany.

He was in his office in the afternoon, for that was how his day progressed. The mornings began with a simple inspection and he spent his time until the lunch hour supervising training and exercise programs, occasionally seeing to other business that needed doing in the realm of Imladris. After lunch was his appointed office hour, and he would always spend more time than he truly wished to pouring over the never-ending paperwork required of him. He would, on occasion, be overheard complaining bitterly that a captain’s place was hardly behind a desk, but his complaints were rare and insincere, so no one was particularly bothered. His evenings were his own to do with as he pleased; his pleasures ranged from hunting in his Lord’s land to conversing and singing in the Hall of Fire to sitting in the quiet company of Elrond’s Chief Counselor reading a book, and it was not uncommon to find him lending a hand in the kitchens, which were always understaffed, particularly in the springtime.

This afternoon should have been no special occasion, for there was little trouble in Imladris and the most exciting thing to have happened in the past decade was a chicken that somehow got loose in Elrond’s chambers. Glorfindel, of course, had had nothing to do with the incident.

The office he worked in was neither large nor small. It was appointed in fine dark woods and deep, cool colors. There were many books and a few plants and a small fireplace for the colder winters. There was only one window, which faced east. It afforded enough light in the afternoon for elven eyes however, and Glorfindel had need of a candle on only the cloudiest of days. There were in the office two desks, which were situated opposite one another. The desks were identical, for the same hands had made them, but a glance at where they sat beneath the wide window would tell much of those who used them.

The desk Glorfindel worked at was forever accumulating things. Not just his papers, which sat in disorderly piles to either side of him, but all sorts of random bric-a-brac. There was always a weapon lying about that needed sharpening or some such, and small piles of coin that were weighing down his pockets and drinking glasses he’d forgot to return to the kitchens and a skillfully crafted pipe that he occasionally indulged in -- though never in the office, for his officemate would consider such an offense worthy of a hanging at the very least. Since there were children forever running about Imladris and since children in Imladris loved little more than Glorfindel, there were always drawings tacked up on the windowsill or tucked between the pages of a book or propped up on his collection of things. So too could be seen broken toys, from dolls to toy carriages and wooden swords, which the children brought to him in his office, knowing that he was surely the one best suited to fixing them.

The desk opposing him belonged to Erestor, the Chief Counselor. They had shared an office for nearly as long as Imladris had stood, and it suited them perfectly well, for Erestor used the space in the mornings and then spent his afternoons traipsing about the House, seeing to what needed seeing to. And it was only rarely that they ever had need of the office at the same time, otherwise their contentment would not have lasted nearly as long as it had and the desks, certainly, would not have long remained in such a configuration. As it was, Glorfindel’s things were continuously flowing onto the other desk, an irritant to its keeper, who insisted upon tidiness in all facets of his life. Erestor would not stand for the busted quills and empty inkpots and scrap papers to slowly gain his territory, and he would quickly dispose of them. His own desk boasted a beautiful scrollwork unit to one side that held all his most-used utensils in their proper places; the surface was always neat and clean, with only his most recent work before him, and the drawers beneath painstakingly filed.

On this particular afternoon, not long before the unforeseen epiphany, Glorfindel entered the office after lunch to find Erestor still working. “Good afternoon, Erestor,” he greeted his officemate. He closed the door behind him and sat at his desk.

Erestor had one white hand splayed upon the fine parchment, his other neatly grasping a rare green quill, when he looked up from his correspondence. A tangle of black hair fell from behind his pointed ear to cover one dark brown eye; his expression was one of vague surprise and Glorfindel was taken aback to see a smudge of violet ink across Erestor’s cheek. Surely the Counselor couldn’t know it was there, for he was most meticulous about his appearance. Glorfindel smiled at him.

Erestor smiled back. It wasn’t what one would usually call a smile, but Glorfindel had known Erestor long enough to recognize the gentle smirk for what it truly was. “Afternoon,” Erestor murmured before bowing again to his work, his free hand reaching up to tuck away the black strand of hair into its proper place.

= = = = =

This was not yet the moment of the epiphany, but it was an important moment just the same.

= = = = =

Glorfindel went about his afternoon routine. Firstly, he grabbed up a clean scrap of paper and drew up a list for himself of all the things that needed accomplishing. Then, he organized them into three categories. The top category was ‘Do Today.’ After that came, ‘Try to Do Today.’ Lastly was, ‘You’ll Probably End Up Doing It Tomorrow.’

It was quite often that something that ended up in the third category stayed there for some weeks, and Glorfindel got behind schedule. But the things that really needed doing usually got done, so he really wasn’t terrible at this other part of his job; he just didn’t find it as fascinating to organize messengers as it was to thrust a sword at people’s heads.

As he jotted down all the things that needed doing, he looked up on occasion to spy upon Erestor, who remained steadfastly in his seat working. “What keeps you in the office today, Erestor?” he finally asked, curious.

When Erestor looked up again, that same tendril of hair snaked down to obscure his vision, and he puffed at it to make it shift further away. “There’s a changeover coming up this month,” he answered quietly. “And Elrond is behind in his correspondences. My afternoon is devoted to ensuring the legibility of these letters and getting them on the road as soon as may be. Then the rosters must be posted by sunrise in two days’ time.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Changeovers are the worst,” he sympathized before returning to his work.

An hour later, however, he had accomplished very little. He lightly threw down his quill with great annoyance. “Blast,” he muttered.

Erestor looked up. “You seem distracted, my friend. If you have no pressing matters to attend to, take the afternoon for yourself today. Elrond would not disapprove.”

Glorfindel only heard one word Erestor said. “Distracted?”

Tilting his head curiously, Erestor answered in his slow, quiet voice, “Aye. Today you are fidgeting like a child where you sit, and your gaze keeps drifting to the window. And,” he nodded at Glorfindel’s workspace, “you’ve made a mess of your papers. Rest, Glorfindel. Perhaps you have been working over-hard.”

Slowly Glorfindel thought about this, and finally he nodded. “My energy is restless this day. I think I shall adjourn to the yard.”

Erestor smirked. He bent his head once more to his work and Glorfindel heard him mutter, “For surely nothing is so calming as swinging a metal stick at your colleagues.”

Glorfindel harrumphed and stood, leaving his messy desk as it was to stalk out the office. He did not slam the door until he amended, “It’s a SWORD, Erestor.”

= = = = =

The epiphany came not long after when Elrond was rushed to the training yard by frantic sentries. Glorfindel was propped against the trunk of a tree, a monstrous gash in his thigh.

Elrond was all professionalism as he tore away some fabric, cleaned the wound, sewed it up, and forced some horrible concoction down Glorfindel’s throat. Then he sent off all of Glorfindel’s men and when they were alone the Lord of Imladris hurled a diatribe of vitriol so sharp at his Captain that Glorfindel could do naught but hang his head and agree to everything, lest Elrond truly lose his temper: a frightening sight indeed, as anyone who has witnessed it might tell.

“Well,” Elrond finally summed up his inspiring lecture on fools in general and soldiers in particular, “How came this to be?” He gestured menacingly to the previously gaping wound in Glorfindel’s leg.

Wincing at the pain, Glorfindel sighed and answered, “It was a routine skirmish with one of my new recruits, Silinde. I gave him free range and he came at me with a thrust I should have been able to parry, but I was--”

This, then, was the moment of epiphany.

“I SWEAR, Glorfindel.” Elrond spoke slowly, his tone dark and his eyes menacing. Each word was a conviction, and he made Glorfindel’s name a curse. “If you tell me you were distracted, I am going to forbid you from holding a sword.”

Glorfindel’s luminous blue eyes were huge and round as he stared disbelievingly at the ground. He thought; he thought through the past hours of his life. He looked up to his Lord and proffered the sword still gripped in his hand. “You’d better take this then.” His voice, when he spoke, was unlike itself. It was small and choked and fearful. “Until you deem me fit enough to take it up again.”

Elrond nearly snarled in distaste, plucking the weapon out of Glorfindel’s weak grasp. Then the warrior struggled to his feet and limped off painfully across the yard toward the House, slowly and without a backward glance and without another word.

Once he had gone, Elrond swore violently and let the sword fall to the dusty ground with a dull clang. “Damn miserable fool,” he proclaimed hurtfully.


	2. Chapter 2

Glorfindel sat ruminating in his chambers. He was sprawled on his grand bed, his injured leg propped upon some pillows with a pot of tea ready beside him on the night table next to a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. An open but unlooked-for book lay limply in his hand as he stared blankly at the wall opposing him.

He kept rubbing the thumb and fingers of his free hand together in something like a nervous gesture as his wide eyes occasionally blinked to keep off the dust.

There’s no way to know how long he would have remained in such a state had not his reverie been broken by a polite tap at the door.

He blinked, though unsurprised at the interruption. He’d already had more visitors than he cared for. “Come in.”

Glorfindel was surprised, however, at who stepped through the door. It was Erestor. His somber robes -- neat and clean -- his immaculate hair, and altogether tidy and sober appearance seemed out of place in Glorfindel’s bright, cluttered room, and for a moment Glorfindel took into his head the idea of painting a portrait of Erestor standing there, perfectly out of place.

“I take it you’re going to survive then?”

Knowing Erestor as well as he did, it was easy for Glorfindel to hear both the humor and concern in the Counselor’s droll statement. “I will if people stop pestering me,” Glorfindel answered, glaring darkly around himself at the book, the pot of tea, the vase of flowers.

“Well then, I’m so delighted I thought to bring you something.” Erestor’s mouth wasn’t smiling, but his voice was.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. “Not you, too . . .”

“Yes me too, but I -- unlike others -- understand that tea is not a cure-all, flowers do not heal, and books do not distract from pain. I thought you might amuse yourself better by keeping your hands busy, considering how little you choose to use your mind.”  
 Glorfindel overlooked the slight on his intelligence when Erestor placed into his open hands a small block of soft wood and a whittling knife. He handled the gifts reverently, as though they were delicate and precious things. Looking up into Erestor’s deep dark eyes, he found himself to be quite speechless.

Darting those eyes away, Erestor searched about and pulled up a nearby chair, first folding the shirt that was hanging off its arm. He sat himself down and looked to his own hands curled in his lap as he spoke, quiet and sincere. “I remember a time when things in Imladris were different. There were times when it seemed there was hardly anything to do. In the deep of those summers three hundred years ago; do you remember? No visitors, no harvesting, no threat of snow or chill. There were weeks spent luxuriating in the knowledge that we had no obligations and no worries. I remember. I remember how you used to clutter up the shelves of the House with little figurines and models and miniature carvings.” Erestor stopped himself, smiling as he weakly blushed. “I thought you might enjoy it,” he said of his gifts.

“I know I will,” Glorfindel finally managed.

= = = = =

When Elrond dropped in on his patient for the afternoon visit, he was slightly shocked and more than slightly aggravated to find wood shavings covering the quilt.

He had knocked softly and then crept into the room when there was no response. He had been glad to see Glorfindel sleeping restfully, gold hair in a braid like rope over the pillow, a small and fairly harmless knife in one hand, and something of indeterminable shape clutched in the other. The blue and white quilt that covered him above his waist was littered with splinters and tiny curls of wood. The scent of pine was overwhelming.

Despite his minute disapproval, the half-Elf halted at the sight, taken back so many years ago when Glorfindel had actually had time to indulge in this favored hobby.

For a moment, Elrond wondered from whence these gifts might magically have come, but then noticed a path of folded clothes from the door to the bed and he knew that Erestor had come. He shook his dark head and took up the seat at Glorfindel’s side. “Looks like you’re getting closer,” he whispered fondly to his charge. Then, deciding that he didn’t have anything better to do, he took on the painstaking task of picking all the shards of wood from atop Glorfindel’s sleeping form, nails deftly grasping hold of the tiniest splinters that had wiggled into the tight wool of the quilt.

After disposing of the sawdust, Elrond removed the knife and set it on the bedside table. Then, he tenderly pried the chunk of wood from between the clutching fingers that had hidden it. Elrond gasped, holding the thing close before his eyes as though his own inner light might illuminate its meaning, though the meaning was clear enough.

He had never seen Glorfindel form a tiny sculpture quite like this. It appeared as though a rose bloomed entwined with edelweiss from within a curving seashell. The artwork was frighteningly lifelike, despite the dark grain of the wood, and the symbolism was appallingly clear.

Love. The rose was love. No matter your age or race, you knew this. The rose had always been love; the rose would always be love. Though a rose is also graced with thorns.

The edelweiss. A hard-won or unattainable goal, for the edelweiss flower grew high among the dangerous crags and was difficult to find and to pick and to keep.

The seashell. The sea. The Sea. Long had the sea been a bittersweet call to many Elves. For beyond the Sea lay an eternal home.

Then, as Elrond cradled the little thing no bigger than a fist in his two careful hands, he felt an odd texture on the bottom. He turned the sculpture over to find a knotwork design painstakingly etched into the flat bottom of the pine block.

He could not suppress the gasping sigh. The Golden Flower. The Acorn. Hopelessly and carelessly and irreversibly interlaced.

Not many knew that Erestor’s family symbol was the acorn, but doubtless Glorfindel had known and had carved this piece with a purpose.

Elrond set the carving beside the knife and leaned over the blue-white bed to kiss Glorfindel’s calm, cool brow. “If this doesn’t do it,” he told the deep sleeper, “I swear I’ll tear my hair out.”

He stood and retreated, whispering into the room again, “You’re absolutely hopeless. Both of you.”

= = = = =

Erestor came again the next day.

Glorfindel met the knock with an eager, “Come in!” and upon the sight of Erestor’s dark form, he pulled himself to sit up straight in the bed, the long blond braid hanging over his shoulder. Glorfindel glanced aside to the statue, suddenly wishing he could hide it.

But as Erestor took shuffling steps across the room, he wasn’t looking at the carving or at Glorfindel.

“Erestor?”

The Counselor sat in the chair, hands in his lap, face paler than usual. “I’m sorry . . . How is your leg?”

“Oh. Better.”

“Good.”

“What, Erestor? No insults, witty insinuations about my intelligence?”

Large brown eyes peered out from under that loose strand of black hair. “Glorfindel, I don’t always take pleasure in tormenting you.”

“I know,” he smiled. “Just usually.”

“Um,” Erestor reached into the folds of his dark robes and dug around, looking for something. “I . . . I meant to give this to you.” Finally, he came up with a folded packet of papers. He stood and passed it with a shaky hand to the golden Elf on the bed.

Glorfindel took the parchment, examining it curiously. It was worn and faded, as though it had lived in Erestor’s pocket the past hundred years, frequently read and handled, though it very clearly had his name on.

He looked up, saying, “Erestor?”

But the Elf was long gone, the door open, and Glorfindel was alone.

So he unfolded the papers to read.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Glorfindel.

Love letters are not my style. They are old-fashioned, sentimental, and cowardly. I, however, admit freely -- to you if to no one else -- that I am all these things now that my heart has finally submitted to the angstful whimsies of love.

I imagine you may understand when I tell you that from birth my life has been a turbulent one. I never had time, I thought, for love. In that callow youth of mine, I did not understand that we, most often, do not have the opportunity to make choices where hearts are concerned. When I grew older, I soon saw for myself the great ironies, tragedies, and triumphs of love. Always, however, they seemed distant to me. I saw, but did not know, I was jealous, but did not recognize it, I wanted, but could not discern what.

For sometime, I awaited the spark of love, eager to discover when it would strike. Surely, I thought, surely it would be soon, for so many of my companions had been wed and begun families of their own. I studied each new face I met, wondering, “Will he, will she, be the one?”

But I continued growing older, and I never felt the anticipated ‘spark.’ I asked so many people how they knew it, when the time came, that they were in love. How very often did I receive that same answer: “I just knew.”

So still I waited, waited for that moment when I, too, would know.

But it did not come. The years turned like the seasons and all people knew war. Kingdoms and kings rose and fell, and my friends of old who had ‘known’ they were in love were long dead until one Age passed into the next and I realized that I was no longer counted among those who were young.

I sooner identified with those old Elves who seemed destined to remain forever alone, content with their work and knowing quite well their place in the world.

It was a shock to me to realize this truth. I had become old, set in my ways, and had long learned how to live alone.

I quickly, though not easily, accepted that this would be my way.

And it was my way. For a very long time. I saw the passing of yet another Age. I saw, yet again, the hopes of our race -- joined by the race of Men -- rise above all else.

And I considered myself to be quite comfortably entrenched in my life here at Imladris.

And so long had I been lonely, and content in that loneliness, that when the spark of love flared within me, I was mortified. ‘Now?’ I asked the Valar. ‘After a generous lifetime of accustoming myself to a solitary living, you tempt me with a longing that shall not be met?’

I was furious.

My body, so long a quiet and obedient thing, suddenly grew restless with a need I had never known and knew not how to control. My soul, so long singular, selfish, and whole, suddenly demanded that it was not whole and must be completed. My heart, so long silent, ardently assured me that all this was true, and that I -- finally -- was in love.

I debated with myself quite endlessly about it. But body, soul, and heart were adamant, and not to be swayed by any reason. My mind, it seemed, stood alone against the assault of love.

‘Then,’ I asked whatever powers might be listening, ‘why Glorfindel?’ I had known you quite long enough to be surprised at the revelation that I love only you. And angry, too, certain that it was an ironic adoration, certain that because you had never declared your undying love for me that there was no possibility that these feelings -- if that is what one calls this waterfall-intensity of emotion -- would ever be returned.

Denial, bargaining, none of it made any difference, for the spark of love had kindled in me an immortal fire, never to be smothered by the likes of time, logic, or prayer.

Eventually, then, came my acceptance. I accepted that my heart could not be exchanged like a deficient weapon, or dismissed like an inept intern. I accepted that I was gifted with love, but cursed too, for it was a one-sided affair.

Love, as you can see, inspired in me something of a melodramatic air.

Thusly, I began to learn the secrets of love that I had expected to embrace at a much earlier time in my life. And inexperienced though I admit I was, I realized that it was a unique and daring love, possibly quite different from any other. Firstly, I am, to put it simply, ancient. I have seen and known too much to breathe an innocent love. What I feel for you will always be darkened by lust and by all the complex disclosures that life offers us, for before I knew love, I knew death; before I knew the singularity of devotion, I knew the paranoia of betrayal. Before I knew the joy of merely looking upon you, I knew the terror of looking down the end of a blade. And before I knew you, I knew myself; and how many people can truly claim that?

On the other hand, I have learned that love changes a person. You have changed me. I cannot list for you these changes, for I myself do not know them, having only the sudden knowledge that I am utterly different. I will try, despite their vastness. I am different because the free hours formerly spent in quiet and personal study have been otherwise occupied by spending time with you, or thinking about you, or writing the most driveling romantic poetry on Arda that I now keep in an old cargo box beneath my bed. I am different, because I find on occasion that when I should be working, I have fallen to despairing daydreams. I am different because where there was only dignity to be maintained in my presentation, I now take the absurdly tedious care of attempting to enhance my appearance on the chance that you should notice it. I am different because where I once identified the name ‘Glorfindel’ in my everyday discussions as a friend, I must now endure the little leap my heart takes every time I hear your name uttered. I am different because I endeavor to sit near you so that I may gaze that more easily upon your handsome countenance and eavesdrop on your conversations, secretly hoping that you will mention my name and nearly swooning with delight when you do. I am different because I must now endure the constant teasing from a good friend of mine who has divined for himself my feelings for you, an embarrassment from which I will never escape. I am different because my once quiet body demands release, which I give it in the dead of night with your name upon my lips. I am different because I am in love.

So. Though I may be changed, I am still -- I convince myself -- hopeless. Why, then, this? This trite annotation? This hideously self-demoralizing declaration?

I have told you: love has made me old-fashioned, sentimental, and cowardly. Old-fashioned, because I desire not only you, but a true courtship. Trinkets and poems and dancing. Sentimental, because -- as you can see -- I am suddenly overrun by emotion, and nothing I have done has lessened it. Cowardly, because I had planned to confess all of this to you with my words, and not by some shaky scrawl upon scrap bits of paper.

Glorfindel, confound it all, I love you.

Ever Yours,  
Erestor

*~*~*~*~*~*

Glorfindel’s hand dropped to his lap, clutching the letter fiercely. He knew that he must have the silliest smile on his face. He did not care.

He and Erestor were completely different, but he did not care. He had been distracted from life by Erestor for decades, but he did not care. He had been thickheaded enough to wonder why, but he did not care now, because now there was love.

Blinking through tears he hadn’t known were there, Glorfindel spied a dark splotch against the open doorway. He squeezed the tears out of his eyes to find Erestor standing just beyond the threshold of his room, staring blankly at him.

Glorfindel was stunned. “Thought I’d have to send my guards to bring you here.”

Erestor looked determinedly at the floor. “That, originally, was my plan.”

Glorfindel couldn’t force the ridiculous smile away. “But, you’re here.”

“Yes,” Erestor blurted out quickly, the first overt sign of his nerves.

“Why are you here?”

“Were you really going to send guards?”

“With manacles, if needed,” Glorfindel assured him. “I’m not going to let a little thing like crippling pain get in my way.” He was still smiling, this ludicrously huge grin. “But you’re here.”

“Yes.” Erestor took a deep breath. So uncharacteristic. “I am determined to overcome my cowardice.”

“Is that why you’re lurking by the door?”

“I’m not lurking.”

“Erestor,” Glorfindel purred in a warning voice.

“I love you.” Erestor’s eyes were wide with shock at his own words.

Silence.

“Just, I just wanted to say that to you.” Then, he bolted.

“Guards!”


	3. Chapter 3

Three hours later, the guards had been summoned, the House and all its outlying areas searched, Glorfindel lectured by Elrond, Elrond shouted at by Glorfindel, and Erestor yet to be found.

Dinendal, Glorfindel’s friend and lieutenant, sat in the chair beside the bed, looking with an evaluating eye at his Captain. “Glorfindel.”

No reaction.

Dinendal continued, “Why do you have half the guard and all the staff in Imladris searching for Erestor?”

“Because he’s hiding from me.”

“Why is he hiding from you?”

“Not sure. Exactly.” Glorfindel laced his fingers together and looked to his lap.

Dinendal raised a brow. “Not sure? Exactly?”

The blonde shook his head. “Call off the search, Dinendal. It’s useless, hunting Erestor in his own territory. He knows this House better than anyone.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said a new voice.

Glorfindel and Dinendal turned to see Elrond in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“You know where he is?” Glorfindel asked with a touch of fatigued hope.

“Yes.”

They waited.

“You won’t tell me, will you?”

Elrond stepped into the room, glared at Dinendal, and nodded toward the hall.  
 Dinendal left without a word, closing the door behind him.

Elrond stood at the bedside, glared down at Glorfindel, and raised a brow.

Glorfindel said, “After centuries of stagnant, mystifying daydreams, things are moving very quickly all of a sudden.”

“About time,” Elrond smiled at him. “But I want to know why the House is crawling with armed guards and you’ve my staff in an uproar.”

Gesturing to the bed, Glorfindel pointed out, “I would chase him down myself, you know. As you can see, he’s purposely left me in the lurch and I don’t appreciate it.”

“You don’t sound angry. And you’re smiling.”

“I think I’ve been smiling for the past three hours without stopping.” Glorfindel shook his head. He picked up the carving from his bedside. “Elrond, if he won’t come to me, will you take this to him?”

Elrond took the pine statue in careful hands. His voice was suddenly soft with empathic love, “Aye. I can do that. Do you send a message with it?”

“No. --Yes! Tell him, ‘The first trinket.’”

He nodded and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned back and told him, “But I’ll give him the eyebrow and tell him to come. He is a bit of a coward, you know.”

Elrond shut the door on Glorfindel’s laughing, “So am I!”

= = = = =

With little else to do, Glorfindel pretended to content himself watching the changing sky out the window. Bright afternoon blue was rolled over by heavy dark clouds high above the valley, threatening rain. Little droplets spit in a short fit against the window and ceased not long after, running down the uneven, leaded glass in bursting rivulets until the sun shone again. The fiery brilliance of Anor burned away the moisture and Glorfindel watched the drops grow smaller and smaller against the bright light, awed at the changing, pointillist landscape revealed there on his window, as though he’d never seen such a sight before.

Eventually, though, the sun disappeared over distant hills and the sky performed another astonishing display of color mutation, bright blue quickly failing, overtaken by something paler, duller, less intense. This evening, the west blared violet with a hint of pink lining the last of distant gray clouds before the colors muted altogether and swam into a moment of dull void.

Glorfindel watched all this, and smiled when the first curious stars blinked into existence, hanging in their accustomed alignment on the dark net of the eternal sky.

Then, without warning, the door opened. “Sorry I neglected to knock,” Elrond huffed, slightly brusque, slightly annoyed, slightly amused. “But I walked by and found this one loitering about.”

It appeared, however, that Elrond was alone.

The expression on his face when he turned to look behind him was priceless, had anyone been there to see it. “Get in here!”

Erestor shuffled in.

“Good.”

Then Elrond left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Glorfindel smiled but said nothing, observing the Elf suddenly trapped in his rooms.

Erestor was quiet by nature, intelligent by chance, cynical by choice, and altogether a gentleman, with a lordly manner defined by fine values rooted in what could only be the most native sort of hope.

But for the first time, he didn’t appear to be.

Erestor cowered. That was the word for it. He stood, shoulders curled in, head bowed, dark hair spilling over to cover as much of a pale face as possible. His hands -- delicate, long-fingered, with clear glassy nails -- shook with some breed of fear. Maybe anxiety, or apprehension. And those hands were tightly clutching the little pine statue of seashell and flowers. He said nothing.

Despite running away, despite leaving Glorfindel alone to stew (frustrated and scheming), despite these things, Glorfindel found it in no way possible to berate, criticize, or rebuke this Elf, this being, this creature who was all too different from himself and yet had managed to wind his way to the center of Glorfindel’s continually growing world. Erestor.

“Erestor,” Glorfindel told him, “I am very glad you came back.” Honesty was best, Glorfindel thought, and in this case, the only possibility existent to him.

A small glance, flash of dark, and Erestor rolled his eyes at his own cowardice. He lifted the carving so that it was cradled to his breast and then tried a small smile.

“Please,” Glorfindel offered, sitting up even straighter than he had upon Erestor’s arrival, “sit.” He gestured to the now familiar chair. “Please don’t be so nervous,” Glorfindel begged, still smiling. “I love you too.” His voice was suddenly softer than it ever had been, delicate. Fragile. If only such confessions demanded less of the confessors, perhaps we would speak more often and truthfully of love.   
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Erestor asked, and then covered his mouth, as would a child who had just remembered he wasn’t supposed to speak. But after a moment, Erestor recovered. He dropped his hand and slinked with shuffling steps closer to the chair, and therefore closer to Glorfindel.

Encouraging nods from Glorfindel spurred the dark Elf on until Erestor was sitting primly on the edge of the chair, as a bird on a branch prepared to flee any moment.

“Settle in,” Glorfindel told him with a laugh. “You’re more than welcome here.

Erestor would not look at him. He studied instead the fine craftsmanship of the trinket fondled in careful hands.

“Your letter,” Glorfindel started. “That little carving,” he tried again. He sighed. He never stopped smiling. “I think we love each other quite a lot. Can we not dispense with this cowardice of the heart?”

Energetically, Erestor shook his head. He still did not raise those fine, dark eyes.

“All right then. It looks like we’ll be here for a while, and I’ll just keep talking, like I am, until you weary of it, and finally break the monotony with one of your well-timed insinuations, how does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Why so shy, Erestor?”

Shrug.

“Ah well,” Glorfindel ran a hand over his head, upsetting fine blond hair, and pulling a few strands loose from the braid. And then he said no more. Waiting.

Finally, Erestor moved. He tucked away the forever disobedient tangle of hair from before his eyes and raised his head to meet Glorfindel’s expression.

Glorfindel’s smile was charmingly disarming. “You want to see some REALLY bad poetry?”

A shy smile touched Erestor’s lips. He nodded.

Glorfindel gestured downward. “You’re not the only one who thinks the shadowy depths beneath the bed are a perfect place to hide things. It’s a wooden box, carved with vines. You can’t miss it.”

Erestor knelt, with such humility and grace, at the side of Glorfindel’s bed, meeting his eyes the entire time. Then he ducked down, black hair falling silently over a black shoulder. Pale hands reached under the bed skirt and a swift search resulted in a smallish sort of box, carved from oak, beautifully detailed with fantastical creatures like dragons and winged horses on the lid, and ivy vines all round the side.

His throat suddenly dry, Glorfindel gestured wordlessly at the chair, and Erestor nimbly perched upon it again, setting the flat box on his lap. He reluctantly set the seashell carving on the bedside table. “Open it,” Glorfindel whispered.

Erestor opened the box. It was filled with papers. He leafed through them with the careful hands of any respectful librarian. He found a receipt that he had signed at the delivery of iron from the Lonely Mountains and raised an eyebrow at Glorfindel.

“It had your signature,” he explained softly, though with the toned implication that this should be the most obvious thing in the world.

He watched as Erestor moved through the papers, glancing at them. “That one!” Glorfindel nearly shouted, pointing, “with the spirals doodled all along the side. Read that one.”

Erestor seemed mute; he handed the paper over to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel took it, but with a sardonic little grin. He noticed the tears beading in Erestor’s eyes, but said nothing of it. “You want me to read it. All right.” He held the thin parchment in careful fingers and shook his head. “This was the first one,” he said with a laugh. He cleared his throat nervously:

“Find me a love to make me whole  
Find me a heart to keep safe my love  
I seek a mate to match my soul  
I seek a star from above.

“A silent shadow haunts my steps  
A shadowed beauty fills my dreams  
Coal-black eyes mine soul traps  
My songs of love: repeating themes.

“His eyes are night, filled with stars  
His ebony locks are raven’s wings  
His shrouded heart mine heart scars  
His vacant spirit my heart stings.

“This ode betrays my silent mind  
These words reveal my hidden heart  
A silent vow would our hearts bind  
Declared, this secret would break us apart.”

Glorfindel coughed, “That was . . . yeah. At my most depressive. I got over it.”

“So I can see.”

“I don’t think I shall ever stop smiling now.”

Erestor again met his eyes. “Good.” He looked then to the box and idly moved a few papers around. “I liked the poem.”

“Thank you.” He chuckled a little. “I’m sure yours are better.”

“I assure you, they are not.” Erestor sighed. “Glorfindel,” he began.

But said nothing more.

“Yes,” Glorfindel eagerly responded. “Please tell me anything; I’ll listen.”

Erestor laughed. Just a little. “This is silly and intense at the same time.”

“Yes.”

“How is your leg?”

“Oh. Better.”

“Good.”

Erestor stood. He set the box down on the chair. Then, he gathered his robes and climbed daintily upon the bed to sit just beside Glorfindel, their legs stretched out before them, backs supported by the mound of pillows.

Erestor took Glorfindel’s hand, and rested -- with swanlike grace -- his head upon Glorfindel’s shirt-clad shoulder. “Glorfindel,” he said matter-of-factly, the last of his cowardice shooed away for the time being. “We have shared an office for thousands of years without much in the way of disagreement. Therefore, hope stands to reason that shared lives would lead us no more astray. But, we never see quite eye-to-eye at Council. Therefore, logic decrees that home living bodes us ill. We have both of us always been open-minded and accepting of others’ differences. Therefore, we should in theory be as accepting of each other. But, you have no sense of order and I rely on it. Therefore, equal footing will be hard to find, if found at all--”

And Erestor would, in all likelihood, have continued well into the night, if not for Glorfindel’s tactful interruption. The golden-haired Elf turned his head and caught the debating lips in a kiss, quick and deep and just right.

When he pulled back, only the very corners of his mouth kept the fond smile, but all Erestor saw were the deep, loving blue eyes. “I think,” Glorfindel told him, voice a little rough and low, “we’ll make it all work somehow.”

“You’re overly optimistic,” Erestor whispered.

“Yes,” Glorfindel off-handedly agreed. “And you’re a perspicacious scholar whose curse is eternal cynicism and whose heart will never fail.”

“Do I have to return that excessively maudlin sentiment?”

“Tomorrow,” Glorfindel told him. “Gives you time to think up a really good one.”

Erestor said nothing, only gripped Glorfindel’s hand all the tighter and turned to bury his face in the crook of Glorfindel’s neck, breathing deep.

Safe, content, loved, they slept.

But not before Erestor whispered, “A trinket. A poem. You still owe me a dance.” And he smiled. “Perspicacious . . .”

= = = = =

The End


End file.
